


why, 'cause they all die

by kidcomrade



Category: No More Heroes (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 17:02:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/612145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcomrade/pseuds/kidcomrade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"<i>Everyone dies, Reaper,</i> he thinks,  <i>even you, Reaper, Reaper, that’s what people called you.</i>" Travis contemplates death. Post-NMH2, pre-epilogue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	why, 'cause they all die

He catches himself humming her song  one night.

Hell, it wasn’t even fucking  _relevant_ at the moment: tonight was yet another thrilling evening spent with his laptop and his cat. Sylvia was gone; the UAA, apart from a few stubborn stragglers, was gone; the sheer human  _momentum_ , the rush of blood and rage and adrenaline, that came with a good old fashioned vengeance quest? Gone, gone, evaporated into so much air, so much of  nothing.  Which was, in fact, where he was now. Nothing doing. Nowhere going. The same, all the same, the same shitty apartment, the same cheap furniture holding up tons of overpriced resin and plastic. Apart from his yet unrepaired window, an ugly mosaic reminder that clung together under packing tape, he could’ve pretended that nothing at  _all_ had happened to him in these three-odd years.

The moonlight streams through his window in roughly hewn, assymetrical chunks. The packing tape is cardboard brown and opaque, but then again it was only one pane that’d broken. And then again, the last thing on his mind when he’d put the stuff up, clumsily tearing strips off the roll with his teeth to hold this goddamn window together, had been artistry: not with Bishop’s blood still tracing a dotted line along his carpet to where his paper-bagged head had lain.

Travis Touchdown exhales. It’s a full, weary breath, a whole lung-full, and he blinks too much and scratches one foot with the other foot and drums his fingers on the side of his armchair. He’s thinking too much again. Thinking about dead people, thinking about things that just don’t  matter  anymore, names and numbers when he can’t place names and the final, heavy noise a body makes when it stumbles from human to corpse. 

The moon is bright tonight. There was a woman he killed once, one of one two three four five six seven women. _That’s got to be the street lamp, that is too fucking bright  to be the moon._ She sang— _the  moon, turn that shit off_ —she sang to him and she told him to remember.

And she died on a rooftop with her spilled guts staining the lace of her skirts. 

 _Everyone dies_ , _Reaper_ , he thinks,  _even you, Reaper, Reaper, that’s what people called you_.

He’s been tapping out the rhythm of the tune with his fingers, he realizes, giving up, singing it under his breath, to an audience of no one in particular.


End file.
